


Sleeping Beauty

by NerysDax



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerysDax/pseuds/NerysDax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fairy tales can make your dreams come true, or is it all an illusion?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uleanblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uleanblue/gifts), [Tomione_Forum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomione_Forum/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
>  **A/N:** This story was written as a part of our Tomione forum’s Secret Santa for redbarnus. The plot of this story is completely different from what I planned originally (since evil Hermione just didn’t give enough conflict with Tom) and it slightly differentiates from your prompt (though not in essence), but I hope you’ll like it anyway, redbarnus. 
> 
> With thanks to BrightneeBee for coming up with the brilliant title “Macabre Paradigm: Theories of the Darkest Art”.
> 
> Special thanks to my betas: Serpent In Red and Lady Miya.

 

**Sleeping Beauty**

 

Later, she wondered why she hadn’t figured it out.

 

Brightest witch of her age, yeah riiight.

 

There had been similarities. Uncanny similarities, in retrospect. Similarities, the Hermione Jean Granger could’ve, would’ve, _should’ve_ picked up on. She’d worn the locket after all. She’d heard all the stories. She knew how he operated. She knew. She should’ve known. She’d been a fool. A lovesick fool, to make it worse. So demeaning. She could just imagine the smirk he would sport at that.

 

“Love, such an inconvenient, silly weakness, wouldn’t you agree, Hermione?” she imagined him saying in that overly sickeningly sweet tone of voice to really rub it in.

 

Her mood darkened. She wanted revenge; she wanted sweet, cold-blooded vengeance. She wanted him to hurt as much— _no!_ —even more than her. She wanted his slow, excruciatingly painful death.

 

No, death would be too merciful. She wanted to entrap him in a neverending torture.

 

Yes.

 

Neverending torture. Nothing more, nothing less. That would do.

 

And she knew just how to accomplish it.

 

He’d shown her how after all. He’d done it to her.

 

He’d been patient, waiting several years before striking. He’d waited until her mind had shown him she’d gotten at ease and the war—that blasted Hufflepuff cup Horcrux!—was nothing more than a distant memory. Even though he had the advantage of her not knowing his looks nor what was truly happening, an advantage she wouldn’t have with him, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the anagram-making, warmongering, power-hungry bigot, would learn what happened to people who crossed Hermione Jean Granger.  

 

In case you were foolish enough to be wondering, it was nothing good.

 

**Six Months Earlier**

 

This was the best day of her life. She’d finally found an original copy of the incredibly rare “Macabre Paradigm: Theories of the Darkest Art” in the Parisian Wizarding Library. Reverently, she held the book in her hands as it was loaned out to her. She couldn’t wait to get back to her hotel room and start reading it. As she was devouring the words on the pages with her almost fanatic hunger for knowledge, she didn’t see his blurry reflection in the window as the day turned to night, nor did she see his pleased smile when she finally couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore and fell asleep on top of the pages.

 

It was the first time she dreamt of him.

 

It wouldn’t be the last.

 

Every time she fell asleep she’d see this vague silhouette floating in thin air. She’d reach for him, feeling it was important to wake him, to see him for real. But every time she almost touched him, he’d be farther away, always just out of reach. When she’d wake, she felt restless, uneasy. It was aggravating her that she couldn’t make out more; she wanted to see more, know what it was all about. It felt somehow imperative as if her very survival depended on it.

 

So, she read everything there was about wizarding dream theories, even went to see a dream specialist, who offered her the same advice as the books had done: focus. Focus on your dreams so you can see them for what they truly are.

 

That it was the worst advice she could’ve gotten and the advice he’d been counting on her getting was something that still made her see red in anger and embarrassment.

 

However, she did just that. Before going to sleep, again and again, she’d focus her mind, her magic, her entire being on her desire to see.

 

And it worked.

 

With time, the vague silhouette slowly turned into a handsome, sleeping stranger. Every passing night, she could make out more of him. The way his hair was as black as ebony, his skin as white as snow, and his lips as red as blood. He wore clearly expensive, black, silk robes over black trousers and a white dress shirt. A black tie complemented the outfit, along with black, expertly polished shoes. Everything about him was meticulously perfect. Hermione thought he was absolutely dropdead gorgeous.

 

She also learnt he wasn’t floating in thin air, but inside some kind of purplish fluid she couldn’t identify. As she tried to reach him, she had to wade through it, drenching her pyjamas. It became deeper and deeper as she moved on. When the fluid reached her lips, she hesitated for several nights. Then, she pushed on, figuring you couldn’t die for real in your dreams. It was hard. Her body objected to her drowning herself in the disgustingly bitter liquid, so she woke up, gasping for air. Logically, she would tell herself everything was okay; she wasn’t truly ingesting the liquid; she wasn’t truly drowning. She had a job to do. She had to know.

 

Finally, her mind, her magic, _her soul_ , forced her body to keep moving. It was torture for quite some time. Her lungs burned; her muscles cramped in the most excruciating manner; her vision blurred. It took all her willpower to keep a full blown panic attack at bay, but she kept putting one foot in front of the other, undeterred. No stupid liquid would get the better of Hermione Granger when she’d set her mind on doing something. Her vision cleared up first. Then the cramps ceased, and finally, her lungs breathed in the liquid as if it were air, as if it were the life force she required.

 

She pumped her fist. She had done it.

 

Swiftly, she looked around and found him, her very own Sleeping Beauty. Pushing off the ground, she swam towards him with long, swift strokes. For once, he didn’t stay just out of reach. No, she collided into him quite forcefully. It was strange to actually feel something solid instead of reaching for nothing, and the tremendous potency of the impact was completely unexpected. It elicited a high-pitched scream for her lips, and she wrapped her arms around his torso as they twirled around in a vortex. It grounded her, holding him. It strengthened her, kept her from feeling nauseated and dizzy. She held on as tight as she could, burying her face in his clothes.

 

“ _He smells nice, like an odd mixture of a pine forest, dark chocolate and freshly baked gingerbread,”_ Hermione thought, looking up at that stunning face when they’d stopped moving around. She no longer knew what was up or down. She no longer cared what was up or down. All that mattered was him.

 

She pulled on his clothes, until they were face-to-face. He looked so peaceful, so … _innocent_ , while he was sleeping. It felt criminal to wake him. He seemed so happy, so beautiful, so … _deadly_.

 

Yet, like the blushing red, poisonous apple, it was too tempting not to try it. She just had to.

 

She had to.

 

She had to kiss him.

 

She had to wake him.

 

_Now!_

 

Tentatively, her lips touched his, moving against him. Her eyes widened when she felt him respond. Now that it was happening, it felt surreal, like something out of a ridiculous fairy tale. The compulsion to kiss him vanished, but before she could stop, his arms were around her, pulling her back in. His eyelashes fluttered. A pair of beautiful, dark-brown eyes caught her, promising to never let go. The way it made her feel was indescribable, so wanted. It elicited a low, dark moan from her lips as she welcomed his deepening of their kiss, the tightening of his hold. She couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to look away.

 

Ever.

 

She wanted to sink into him. Merge with him. Feel all of him. Drown inside of him as he took over all her senses. He’d caught her. He was everywhere, and all was him. Nothing else mattered.

 

When she woke, Hermione let out a frustrated scream at her loss. That kiss was the best she’d ever had. Her whole body was burning in desire; her sex pounded with need; she had to come, and he wasn’t there!

 

Typical.

 

Real life was no fairy tale.

 

“All the handsome princes turn into ugly frogs after you’ve kissed them,” Hermione grumbled darkly, recalling the disaster of a relationship she’d had with Ron. That was enough to squelch her desire, and she got out of bed, feeling tired and in the worst sour mood possible.  

 

xxx

 

The next couple of days, he was gone. She’d go to sleep, hoping to finish her dream, hoping for some answers, hoping to finish their kiss, but nothing. He wasn’t there. What was worse was that she thought she’d seen him while she was awake. There were brief moments when she would spot the same vague sleeping silhouette in the corner of her eye. Yet, whenever she really looked in his direction, there was nothing there. She would shake it off, blaming her long work hours. She was tired. She needed her vacation.

 

Fortunately, she had one coming up soon, a long trip to wizarding USA. She couldn’t wait to go. The famous Salem College had the most comprehensive library of all wizardkind. She could spend decades in it and still only scratch the surface of everything it had to offer. She’d already made a list of must-read tomes in order of importance.

 

That night, she dreamt of him again.

 

This time, however, he wasn’t sleeping. He was upright, leaning casually against a doorpost with his shoulder; his arms crossed in front of his chest; one leg crossed in front of the other, the tip of his left shoe resting on the floor. He wore the same outfit as before, and it seemed even more dashing on him now that he was standing. He didn’t say anything, merely looked at her the way she looked at him.

 

Well, no, now that she thought about it, she didn’t think her gaze was even remotely as intense as his, nor as intimidating.

 

She shook herself as if settling her ruffled feathers. She was being ridiculous. This was a dream, and she wanted answers. Now it looked like he was finally able to give her some. Hermione walked towards her handsome dream man. As she got closer, she realised that he was a lot taller than he’d seemed at first sight, lying horizontally. She had to crane her neck to meet that penetrating dark gaze of his when she stopped in front of him.

 

Damn, he was even cuter up close.

 

Hermione held out her hand. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Hermione Granger.”

 

A small smile appeared on his face. Besides the intensity, there was now a glint flashing through his eyes, showing: amusement, pleasure? Well, it was something positive for sure. He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he brought it to his lips, causing a furious blush to erupt on her cheeks.

 

“I know,” he replied, lowering her hand and taking an absurdly, indecently long time before letting go.

 

“And you are?”

 

“Shouldn’t you know?”

 

Hermione just stared at him, baffled. How could she possibly know? It was one of the things she’d been _dying_ to find out.

 

“This is your dream after all.”

 

“You always know everything that occurs in your dreams?” she countered.

 

He tilted his head, considering her. “Hmmm… perhaps not. Perhaps I do.”

 

“Nicely cryptic.”

 

“I’m your dream man; you tell me.”

 

“Are you saying I made you up?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“Is that your answer to everything: ‘perhaps’?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re aggravating? And don’t say perhaps or maybe or any variation of the sort.”

 

“No, I can’t say anyone ever has. People tend to take an instant liking to me.”

 

Hermione snorted. “Was that before or after you opened your mouth?”

 

“Are you always this confrontational?”

 

“Perhaps,” she replied with a triumphant smile.

 

He took her barb in good spirit. “Ah, that’s a yes then,” he inferred. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

“Who are you?” she asked, confused. “And don’t say stuff like ‘I’m your dream come true’, ‘I’m your Prince Charming’, because I don’t believe in that rubbish.”

 

“Well …” he said, leaning towards her and wiggling his eyebrows, “you said it, not me.”

 

“Aggravating!” she snapped, throwing her hands in the air, aghast.

 

“I’ve been called worse.”

 

“I’m not surprised.”

 

“Why don’t you ask me what you truly want to know?”

 

“Why, am I going to get a straight answer then?”

 

He smirked, allowing the “perhaps” to go unspoken.

 

“Fine. Why are you here, in my dreams?”

 

“Finally a question worthy of your vast intelligence.”

 

“Asking people who they are isn’t a sign of intelligence—”

 

“I couldn’t agree more,” he interrupted.

 

“—It merely is a sign of politeness, making introductions,” she continued, undeterred, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Being rude about it doesn’t make you smart. It just makes you rude.”

 

“I gave you a compliment, and you attacked me. Who’s the rude one now?”

 

“A compliment isn’t a compliment when it’s a veiled insult.”

 

He smiled again, nodding his head in concurrence. “I suppose that’s true. My apologies.”

 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. The last thing she’d expected to come from his mouth was an apology, even when it was one sounding quite unapologetic.

 

“I’m here because you need me to be here.”

 

“What?” she asked, frowning. “Why?”

 

“ARGH!” she yelled, throwing her pillow away, knowing there would be no reply when she stared at her ceiling instead of the aggravating, handsome stranger.

 

xxx

 

That day she saw him clearly, lying on her sofa, sleeping. Hermione pressed her eyelids together and reopened them. Nobody was there. Her sofa was empty.

 

As it should be.

 

Stupidly aggravating dream men shouldn’t be around during daytime. Not even when she was feeling sleepy.

 

xxx

 

Night after night after night passed. Her vacation had come and gone, but nothing changed. She dreamt of him continuously now. He hadn’t given her his name, telling her she knew it already. She was so sick of him reminding her that she should know because this was her dream, so she’d resorted to calling him whatever came to mind _because this was her dream_. She searched for that one name that would annoy him so much he’d have to tell her the truth. He’d flinched when she’d called him John. So, she deemed that one a winner and repeated it whenever she had an opportunity.

 

“How are you doing today … _Joooohn_?” she teased.

 

“Better now you’re here,” he replied, catching her eyes and taking her hand in his, “Hermione.”

 

There was no way of controlling her body’s completely involuntary and telling reactions to his flirtations.

 

And no way of hiding it.

 

That was the worst of it: He clearly noticed. She hated how observant he was. Whenever she’d tease him with the hopes of making him uncomfortable for a change, which took quite some doing, he’d simply turn the tables on her, seemingly without any effort. It was completely unfair. It was also unfair how positively handsome he was.

 

And charming.

 

And intelligent.

 

Why couldn’t she meet a real man like this? Why did this only happen in her dreams? It was no wonder that she’d come to like her nights better than her days.

 

“Did you enjoy reading ‘The False Dichotomy: The Construct of Magic’?” he asked, smiling.

 

Her eyes lit up.

 

“That good, eh?” he concluded.

 

“It’s amazing. I’ve never seen anyone talk about magic the way Lucretia Flores does. She’s so creative and really questions all that we think we know about magic. I love it. I can’t believe they banned the book,” she said, unaware she was shaking him in her excitement.

 

“Ah, yes,” he replied, pulling her into his embrace, “wizarding Britain can be so close minded at times.”

 

“Don’t get me started,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. “This is how we do it because this is how we’ve always done it,” she droned. Sticking out her tongue, she made a noise of disgust. “It’s so ignorant. It halts all possible progress we could make, just because of tradition.”

 

“I’m glad you agree and are willing to look beyond the roads already taken.”

 

“Of course I am. Did you think I wouldn’t be?” she questioned, tilting her head.

 

He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure.”

 

“Flattering. Thanks.”

 

“I wasn’t lumping you together with those ministerial idiots. I was merely wondering if you’d be able to overcome the clear conditioning witches and wizards receive with regards to what magic is.”

 

“But that’s what I love most about her writings! She completely eradicates the dichotomy of magic, proving it’s a construct and a harmful one, too. Once you separate magic into two arbitrary categories, dark and light, one needn’t think anymore of what one is doing because it’s already decided in advance whether the action is negative or positive. Real life just isn’t that simple. People need to think for themselves instead of letting the prearranged construct decide for them what is right from wrong.”

 

“People would be saying that dark magic, say the Unforgivables, aren’t open to interpretation.”

 

“Oh, come oooon. That’s such a trite argument. We want to squelch the discussion, so we bring up the Unforgivables. What we define as dark magic is a far larger category than merely the Unforgivables. We can do good and bad with both dark and light magic,” she huffed. “I know several light spells and charms that can do some serious damage to the human body. It’s stupid to think only dark magic is harmful.

 

“Besides, the whole point Flores makes is that the distinction doesn’t exist. Dark and light magic have the same properties, the same origin. It’s all merely definition, and this definition is holding us back because we stopped researching and developing the parts of magic we’ve classified as dark. We might’ve found cures for horrible wizarding diseases or solutions to those seemingly impossible-to-solve Arithmancy equations. The only ones who’ve developed spells of ‘dark magic’ have been dark witches and wizards who looked to do harm with it. No wonder the dichotomy keeps existing; it’s like a self-fulfilling prophecy. So much knowledge and power we’re just pushing aside, merely because we’ve always had, merely because we’re supposed to, because it is seen as the moral right choice when there is no objective basis for it. It’s inane.”

 

“You don’t have to get angry at me. I happen to agree with you. It’s why I recommended the book to you,” he replied, grinning down at her.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling apologetically. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you. It’s just … it irritates me that we’re so stuck in our thinking. We need to be smarter than this.”

 

“ _We_ definitely are,” he said, closing the discussion by catching her lips in a searing kiss.

 

Hermione didn’t object to that type of change in activity at all. She wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss, enjoying the feel of her body pressing against his as he held her tight. These dreams were the best she ever had. She wished she would never wake up.

 

xxx

 

It had to be because she was so exhausted nowadays. She wasn’t slowly going mad. She wasn’t hallucinating. She probably was just daydreaming.

 

Yes, she was daydreaming when she saw him asleep on her office’s desk.

 

She was daydreaming when she saw him sleeping in the street.

 

She was daydreaming when she saw him out of the corner of her eye while reading a book.

 

She was daydreaming when she saw him sleeping on the counter of her kitchen.

 

She was daydreaming all the time now.

 

She knew she should’ve taken Ginny’s advice and gone to a sunny beach to just relax instead of devouring all the books she could at Salem College. She hadn’t really taken a vacation, according to these so-called vacation experts. That was why she was tired. That was why she hardly slept.

 

Well, she slept and dreamt most satisfyingly of him, but their activities in her dreams caused her to rarely wake refreshed these days.

 

Must be frustration, Hermione decided. He was everything she could wish for, despite his arrogance and know-it-all-better attitude. But that made him even more appealing to her, that he wasn’t perfect. He definitely was everything she ever wished for in a man.

 

She knew that she should get help. She preferred her sleeping hours over her waking ones. She was halluci—daydreaming too much. It wasn’t healthy.

 

She knew that, somewhere, deep down, during brief moments of clarity.

 

Her friends would give her concerned glances. They asked her if she were ill or if anything were wrong. She wanted to tell them, but the words just didn’t want to come. It was like her lips were literally sealed. Instead, she’d utter reassurances and give them some bogus excuse to get them off her back. When they became more insistent, she shut the door on them, telling them it was none of their business and she was dealing with it.

 

During her more lucid moments, she attempted to get professional help. The struggle and conflicting emotions she felt inside of her, then, were overwhelming. It was as if she weren’t fully there. One time she almost made it to the entrance of St. Mungo’s before finding herself abruptly in front of the cashier at Flourish and Blotts with a book in her hand, not recalling her previous destination.

 

Wherever she looked, he’d be there, sleeping.

 

She’d tried to touch him, but as before, he was always just out of reach. It was what made her nights so alluring. At least then she could feel him, and she wanted him. All of him.

 

xxx

 

Her dreams were filled of him. Sometimes, as dreams were prone to be, they’d take an odd path, with strange, disconcerting images. He’d be lacing up the bodice he gave her in a way that constricted her breathing, laughing as she lost consciousness. He’d lie with her, only to turn into a snake when he moved into a basket. She’d find herself, sitting on a chair, her hair down as he stood behind her, a poisonous comb in his hand, and she couldn’t move, couldn’t stop him from brushing her hair and killing her. She’d call out to the queen of snakes to give her back her husband. She’d cut herself on the spindle. A snake seized her and drew her underwater, forcing her to live with him. She’d dance in red-hot iron shoes until she died. She ate from a house of candy. A big bad wolf opened his mouth and gobbled her up. There were many more of them, but he’d always save her from the nightmares, holding her until she’d calmed down, caressing her, telling her it was only a dream—a surreal experience, given that him telling her that also happened in a dream. She always knew that.

 

He was her anchor.

 

Her saviour.

 

She would do anything for him.

 

Everything.

 

xxx

 

She quit her job, sold her house and belongings, and went away without telling anyone. Her waking world was drenched in a purple haze. Nobody mattered. He was all there was.

 

Why wouldn’t he wake? Why was he only awake when she was dreaming? She wanted him here, with her.

 

 _Now_.

 

If only she could reach him, she knew he’d wake.

 

She wanted it so badly.

 

If only …

 

xxx

 

“I missed you,” he said, stroking her cheek.

 

“How can that be? I always see you, even when I’m awake.”

 

“I’m asleep then and can’t see you.”

 

“I wish you could. I don’t like not being able to talk to you or touch you.”

 

“I don’t like that either. I miss holding you,” he said softly, one hand moving around her waist while his other moved around her neck, caressing her pulse point. “You’re so soft, so warm, so … _fragile_.”

 

His hand squeezed, cutting off her oxygen, as he kissed her roughly. Hermione wrapped her arms and legs around him, pulling herself against him, while lights flashed before her eyes. She gasped for air as his hand loosened and his tongue slithered over her bruised skin.

 

“I want you,” she said, panting.

 

“You can have me. All of me. All the time.”

 

The threatening undertone was completely lost on her. He would give her what she wanted; that was all she heard. That was all she wanted. He was an amazing lover. She’d already experienced that many times before. She wanted to experience it again.

 

And again.

 

And again.

 

Slowly, he unbuttoned her pyjama shirt, brushing her skin with the back of his hands as he moved up to push it off her shoulders. His fingers trailed the inside of her arms in the most delicious manner possible. It was just on the verge of not being ticklish, sending tiny sparks to her brain. She relished the feel of his expert caresses as he moved on to her pyjama bottoms. He was down on one knee before her as she held herself up with a hand on his shoulder as she stepped out of the trousers legs. It was impossible not to react to the stroking of her foot soles; it tickled. She giggled and squirmed, having to use both hands to stay upright, causing him to look up at her with a devious smile on his handsome, pale face.

 

“You’re evil,” she declared.

 

“You don’t know the half of it,” he muttered.

 

“Wha-AAAT!?” she yelled when his mouth suddenly pressed against her knickers. He kissed her there, and rubbed his nose up and down against her.

 

Hermione groaned, enjoying the sight of him between her legs while wanting so much more. Those knickers really needed to go.

 

As if he heard her thoughts, he ripped them away with his teeth.

 

“Oye! Those were my good knickers,” she objected.

 

“Are they really destroyed then?”

 

Frowning she stared at his upturned face, until she recalled this was a dream, and none of it was real.

 

“Carry on,” she ordered with a dismissive hand wave.

 

He arched one eyebrow at her, mockingly. “You think you can give me orders, dearest? Think again.”

 

“As you have said, _many times_ , this is _my_ dream.”

 

“I see,” he said slowly, rubbing the back of her legs with his hands. “So you’ve deduced that because it’s your dream, you’re in charge.”

 

“Naturally. That goes without saying.”

 

“Oh, well, if you say so.”

 

He lightly touched the insides of her thighs, moving up and down in a taunting manner. Hermione squirmed. It felt so nice, but she didn’t want to let on because it wasn’t where she’d told him to carry on, and she really needed a win now. She glared down, forcing herself to keep the upper hand. She failed miserably, judging by the chuckle that met her attempt.

 

“I do love it when you try to be scary.”

 

His hands moved up at the outside of her body, caressing her hips and sides, while his mouth left butterfly kisses against her belly.

 

“I don’t have to try,” Hermione replied, the impact of her words diminished by the breathlessness of her voice when he dipped his tongue inside of her bellybutton.

 

“Feel in control yet?”

 

“Ermm… _Oooh_. Sure.”

 

“You can’t even stand still,” he mocked, his hands stroking her back while his lips nibbled all over her skin.

 

“I didn’t know standing still was—oh fuck. Don’t stop—I—I  …”

 

“Lost for words already?”

 

“Just. Shut. Up,” she said in a strained voice.

 

He snorted. “Eloquent, too.”

 

She had to part her legs to allow him access as his tongue trailed from her knee upward over the inside of her thigh, while the tips of his fingers danced over the rest of her leg’s skin. As he got closer and closer to her core, Hermione found it harder and harder to stay upright and grabbed a firmer hold of his shoulders to steady herself. She groaned when he ignored her centre and moved to her other knee to start the process anew.

 

“You tease.”

 

Ignoring her comment, he examined every inch of her thigh’s skin. Hermione let out moan after moan. Suddenly, he licked over her clit. She squealed and jumped in response, not having expected it. His brief snigger vibrated through her as his hands grabbed her hips tightly, and he began pleasuring her for real. Tiny electrifying shocks clouded her brain as his tongue rolled around in circles, spirals, and all kinds of unpredictable directions. She didn’t know what to expect and the delightful sensations were almost too much to bear.

 

She could feel it coming.

 

Almost there.

 

“I’m going to fall,” she panted, feeling her knees weakening.

 

When he actually got to his feet, stopping that delicious thing he was doing with his tongue before she had her orgasm, she grumbled. That wasn’t what she’d meant. He chuckled upon seeing her face.

 

“Patience, patience, little one, all good things come to those who wait.”

 

“You just love making me suffer.”

 

“Your tormented expression sure makes it worth my while,” he replied, cupping her cheek and kissing her.

 

Their lips parted, their tongues met, and he pulled her oh so tightly against him. That was when she first realised that she was the only one naked.

 

“You have too many clothes on,” she mumbled against his mouth.

 

“Easily fixed,” he replied, snapping his fingers.

 

“I love magic,” she said, stroking the bare skin of his back and enjoying the feel of his nude body against hers. “So convenient.”

 

“Are you sure it’s magic?” he asked, stroking her back in response as well.

 

“What else could it be?”

 

“You _are_ dreaming,” he stated before attacking her neck at that sensitive spot underneath her ear.

 

Hermione giggled briefly, then composed herself, and replied steadily, “That comment got old ages ago.”

 

He squeezed her buttocks. “I wouldn’t have to make it if you—”

 

“Shut up, and fuck me already,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

 

“What did I tell you about giving me orders?” he replied, looking down at her.

 

“That it’s a really, _really_ good idea,” Hermione teased, rising on tiptoes to kiss him.

 

He smiled against her mouth, and lifted her in his arms. All of a sudden, she was underneath him—the coolness of the sheets a wonderful relief against her hot, perspiring skin—and he was inside of her, moving at an almost excruciatingly slow pace. He was being soft and gentle, a major contrast to those times he’d tied her up and pounded into her. She’d enjoyed that, too, but this was something else altogether. It forced all of her senses into overdrive, and made her experience every inch of him consciously and deliberately. Her body became so responsive to him that she could practically feel his caresses even before he actually touched her. She was so, so hot. Her core contracted, revelling in the slow friction and pulling him in farther. He stopped moving when she felt stretched to her limits and held himself frozen still.

 

“Is this what you wanted?” he asked, capturing her eyes.

 

The abrupt stop of activity made the pounding of her blood in her nether regions even more pronounced. She was so close, _so close_ , and couldn’t look away from that intense dark gaze. She was his, and she knew it. Hermione cupped his face with both hands, pulled him down, and languorously kissed him.

 

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.”

 

Agonisingly slow, he continued moving. Up and down.

 

Up and down.

 

Up and down.

 

Up and down.

 

When his hand moved between her legs to stimulate her clit, she fell over the edge at once. Her entire body felt like it was in a constant state of overwhelming pleasure. The climax was so intense, she felt beyond delirious, beyond her physical being, beyond time and place. It was as if she were everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She held the universe in her hands, and it was magical.

 

Exhausted, she snuggled up against him. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close as she fell asleep.

 

xxx

 

When she woke, he was asleep next to her on the bed. Hermione sighed, loosened her limbs, and in doing so, touched him.

 

Abruptly, she sat up.

 

She’d felt him!

 

Tentatively, she reached out and poked his arm. She hadn’t imagined it. She could feel him. He was truly here.

 

For real.

 

When she was awake.

 

“John?” Hermione called out, shaking him.

 

It had no effect.

 

She scratched the back of her head, conflicted, taking in his sleeping figure and the way his chest rose and fell in fluent, calm motions. He seemed at ease. That was at least something even though she hadn’t been able to wake him. Hermione narrowed her eyes, concentrating.

 

He was far more … _there_. Almost as if someone had drawn in the colours and sharpened the contours. Her fingers caressed through his black hair. It was just as soft as she remembered it. Everything about him was just as she remembered it. He was every bit as dashing as in her dreams. Her eyes darted between his closed eyelids and his inviting mouth.

 

Would she?

 

Could she?

 

Should she?

 

She decided she should.

 

Her lips softly brushed against his.

 

Once.

 

Twice.

 

Carefully, she nibbled on his full lower lip, and he responded.

 

He’d woken! She’d woken him!

 

Her heart jumped with joy when his arms snaked around her, and he deepened their kiss, their tongues caressing each other languorously. She could do this forever. It felt even better in reality. If only she weren’t so sleepy. Something felt wrong. She felt wrong. This was wrong. When she reluctantly pulled away, the only thing she could still see clearly were his dark eyes and the streak of redness that dashed through them.

 

“Sleep tight, my lovely, little Mudblood,” he said, smirking when the realisation of his identity clearly sat in as she slowly lost consciousness. “You have Lord Voldemort’s gratitude forever.”

 

xxx

 

It wasn’t her fault of course. She was brilliant in so many ways, but her opponent had just been far her superior. Carefully, he placed her body away in a spot no one would ever think to look. Then, he left, certain he would never return. She’d be his hostage forever, while he conquered the world.

 

That morning, he woke, drenched in sweat and trembling in fear and anger. This wasn’t supposed to be possible. That blasted, clever, little Mudblood had turned the tables on him.

 

He’d dreamt of her.

  


 


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